But that was before they visited their real estate holdings. IV. THE ADVENTURE OF THE FIFTH STREET CHURCH AFTER that Glaubus affair, I did not see Perkins for nearly a year. He was spending his money somewhere, but I knew he would turn up when it was gone; and one day he entered my office hard up, but enthusiastic. “Ah,” I said, as soon as I saw the glow in his eyes, “you have another good thing? Am I in it?” “In it?” he cried. “Of course, you're in it! Does Perkins of Portland ever forget his friend? Never! Sooner will the public forget that 'Pratt's Hats Air the Hair,' as made immortal by Perkins the Great! Sooner will the world forget that 'Dill's Pills Cure All Ills,' as taught by Perkins!” “Is it a very good thing, this time?” I asked. “Good thing?” he asked. “Say! Is the soul a good thing? Is a man's right hand a good thing? You know it! Well, then, Perkins has fathomed the soul of the great U. S. A. He has studied the American man. He has watched the American woman. He has discovered the mighty lever that heaves this glorious nation onward in its triumphant course.” “I know,” I said, “you are going to start a correspondence school of some sort.” Perkins sniffed contemptuously. “Wait!” he cried imperiously. “See the old world crumbling to decay! See the U. S. A. flying to the front in a gold-painted horseless band-wagon! Why does America triumph? What is the cause and symbol of her success? What is mightier than the sword, than the pen, than the Gatling gun? What is it that is in every hand in America; that opens the good things of the world for rich and poor, for young and old, for one and all?” “The ballot-box?” I ventured. Perkins took something from his trousers pocket, and waved it in the air. I saw it glitter in the sunlight before he threw it on my desk. I picked it up and examined it. Then I looked at Perkins. “Perkins,” I said, “this is a can-opener.” He stood with folded arms, and nodded his head slowly. “Can-opener, yes!” he said. “Wealth-opener; progress-opener!” He put one hand behind his ear, and glanced at the ceiling. “Listen!” he said. “What do you hear? From Portland, Maine, to Portland, Oregon; from the palms of Florida to the pines of Alaska--cans! Tin cans! Tin cans being opened!” He looked down at me, and smiled. “The back-yards of Massachusetts are full of old tin cans,” he exclaimed. “The gar-bage-wagons of New York are crowned with old tin cans. The plains of Texas are dotted with old tin cans. The towns and cities of America are full of stores, and the stores are full of cans. The tin can rules America! Take away the tin can, and America sinks to the level of Europe! Why has not Europe sunk clear out of sight? Because America sends canned stuff to their hungry hordes!” He leaned forward, and, taking the can-opener from my hand, stood it upright against my inkstand. Then he stood back and waved his hand at it. “Behold!” he cried. “The emblem of American genius!”